Resist (Songs of Submission #6) (20 page)

Geraldine looked away. I hoped she was ashamed.

“We incorporated light into the design,” Jessica said to someone I couldn’t see. “The right temperature of light was the hardest to achieve. We wound up finding old tungsten bulbs in a warehouse in Torrance.”

The doors opened onto the patio at L.A. Mod, which had been decked out in hanging lanterns and silver streamers. The effect was beautiful, incandescent, as if a few dozen artists had collaborated on the décor.

“Five minutes,” Jonathan said in my ear as the crowd filed out. “Stay in my sight.”

Geraldine’s date pulled her with the tide out toward the patio, but not before she grabbed my hand and said “
Do it...
” She laughed as she disappeared into the throng.

Photographers and reporters waited, and the flashing lights made me wince. I waved to her quickly to say good-bye, and she waved back. I wished she’d stayed, even to talk about sex or prison time, because I was alone. Jonathan was ten feet away by a serving stand, talking in serious tones to the light-haired guy. Jessica was surrounded by a gaggle of people, all laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Jonathan and the big guy looked as though they were going to come to blows. He glanced at me and held out his hand in a slight gesture that meant “stay away.”

The elevator doors slid open and another group got out. I heard the phrase again, though Geraldine was far from me.

Do it...

It sounded recorded. I looked behind me. Two girls stared at a phone, the light glowing on their faces.

Do it...

One pocketed the phone when they stepped onto the patio, giggling.

Jonathan’s conversation wasn’t going well. I couldn’t stand there. I just couldn’t. I walked over.

“Hi,” I said. Jonathan slipped his hand over my shoulder. “I’m Monica.” I held out my hand. The blond guy didn’t take it.

“You stole something from my house.”

Jonathan pulled me closer. I felt his body inching between the other man and me. “This conversation is over.”

“It hasn’t started. I’ve got a lawyer.”

He seemed aggressive and off-kilter. As big as he was, he was so non-threatening, I couldn’t be scared. He was handsome and looked fine in his tuxedo, but he wasn’t wearing it...it was wearing
him
. He had no presence, no voice, no significance. Then I realized who he was. Erik. The man Jessica left Jonathan for.

That woman needed a cunt transplant.

“All these phones look alike,” I said. “It was dark. I thought it was mine.” I pursed my lips, trying to keep my mouth in some kind of line that didn’t resemble a smile. But I failed on some level. He didn’t believe me. A four-year-old wouldn’t have believed me.

“You know what he did?” Erik said. “To her?” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of where Jessica may have been standing.

“I hear she was asking for it.” The elevator dinged behind me.

“You’re both sick,” Erik said.

“O’Drassen!” A voice came from behind us, at the elevator. Jonathan turned me around and led me toward Eddie. He wore a white jacket and black tie, his hair combed into a pompadour.

“Ed,” Jonathan said, “take care of her.” He pushed me toward the guy he’d objected to taking me to the event in the first place.

“No problem,” Eddie replied. “And I’m doing great, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

“I mean it. Not out of your sight.”

Some guy thing happened between them, because Eddie stuck out his hand and Jonathan shook it, taking him by the bicep. Then he kissed me. “Be good.” He turned back to Erik, who had been joined by a man with darker hair and ruddy cheeks.

“I feel like I’m stranded in Manland,” I said to Eddie.

“You are.”

As we went into the throng of photographers, I glanced back to find Jonathan and Erik talking heatedly as if I hadn’t even interrupted.

“You ready to be Carnival’s newest face?” asked Eddie.

“Unless you try to put me in a leather mask.”

“Yeah, well that’s off the table. Coulda made a lot of money. This new idea’s a clunker.”

“You could drop me.”

“And let some douchebag from Vintage pick you up? Hell, no.”

The flashing lights were blinding. Between the women in sequins and the men wearing black, it was a high-contrast world. I heard laughter and chirpy voices. I heard clearly one phrase had caught on. It was whispered and shouted and giggled over.

Do it...

I had my customer service smile ready. My hand was on Eddie’s arm, but I kept my body far from his. I didn’t want to embarrass Jonathan, and I didn’t want to appear weak and needy. Those pictures would end up in music and art trades. If I acted like a piece of arm candy for a record executive, I’d have to explain, then prove that I wasn’t.

The cocktail hour was a whirlwind of drinks, cameras, and questions. Who was I? Why was I there? I talked about the B.C. Mod show with Unnamed Trio, which brought Kevin to mind. I tried not to think about him. I talked about my gigs at Frontage, the possibility of a contract, and my education. There were no softball questions about music. The reporters were from art trades, so there was no talk of art itself, only the business of art. I brushed shoulders with Jessica once. We glanced at each other and moved on. It was business.

Eddie and I milled with the guests outside a huge pair of wooden doors. A woman in a red jacket had come by with a man behind her. He carried a silver tray filled with metal lapel pins. Gold, silver, and rhinestone. She asked our names, then selected a gold pin from her assistant’s tray and gave it to Eddie. She gave me a rhinestone. I had no idea what it meant. Glancing around, I could easily tell the artists from the collectors. They were different from their postures to the make of the clothing. The colors, accessories, shoes, all spoke to social class. I caught Geraldine Stark’s eye. She wore a silver lapel pin. My eyes found Jessica. She looked nervous and unhappy, tucking her hair behind her ear. She also wore a silver pin. Artists must get silver, except I had rhinestone.

A couple behind me said, “
Do it
...” together before giggling.

“We’re sitting down in five,” Eddie muttered. “I’ll pass you back to your date.”

“Thanks. That was fun.”

“Get used to it.”

“I thought we were all going to go broke because I didn’t want to carry a riding crop.”

“Not quite
broke
.” He smirked at me and patted my arm.

The doors opened, and the crowd flowed into a huge room overlooking Los Angeles on three sides. Tables had been set in rows with white tablecloths and shining silverware. A longer table sat in front, by the window, Jonathan wasn’t there. Chairs scraped. Voices bounced off the high ceiling. I could sit and start a conversation, but he’d been gone too long. Way too long.

Eddie and I held an animated conversation about the future of streaming with two men he introduced as website developers. I saw Erik talking to Jessica. I scanned the room. No sign of Jonathan. Between his hair and his height, he was a hard guy to miss. Seats were being taken, and the wait staff came out with water pitchers and wine. I slipped away from Eddie as he was making a point about subscription rates on internet radio, and I went out the big wooden doors back to the patio.

The staff had already started breaking down, and the area looked inelegant at best. The floodlights had been removed from the photographers’ area already, making it appear flat and littered. Jonathan was nowhere to be found. The cameras had missed him entirely. I wondered if that was his plan from the beginning.

A man walked toward me with intention. He was tall, maybe six-four, and wore a black cashmere coat and scarf. He was in his sixties but well-worn, taut in the neck and jaw. He had sparkling turquoise eyes and white hair. “Have they gone in?”

“Yeah. The ladies in the red jackets give you your seat. You get one of these pins.” I indicated my rhinestone, and he looked at it appreciatively.

“God forbid we should walk around without a status symbol,” he said.

“Yeah. It’s like a nametag but not as personal.”

“Like you’re only as good as the money you spend.”

His voice sounded eerily like Jonathan’s but wasn’t. I must have looked worried because he put his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t an uncomfortable touch, just comforting. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

He took his hand off me and straightened, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket. “You should wipe your eyes, then.”

“I wasn’t crying,” I said, more in surprise than denial. I put my fingers to my face, but he put out his hand before I touched it. He pressed the handkerchief under my eyes. I let him. I didn’t know why. He seemed nice enough.

“You’re smudged, nonetheless. It wouldn’t be right to have such a lovely woman look like a raccoon.”

I put my hands on his and pressed the hankie down. He brought his hand away.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You look familiar,” he said. “Did you come to this circus last year?”

“No.”

“My God. You should have seen the place. It was a Damien Hirst homage with decapitated heads for centerpieces.”

“Sounds awful.”

“The forks had these hands already attached to them. With veins and nerves. I almost didn’t come tonight. I was afraid they were going to try to top themselves.” He wrinkled his nose, and I smiled. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t here. Maybe I know you from somewhere else.”

I looked up at him as if for the first time, trying to see if I could place his features. There was something about the shape of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the way he tilted his head when he spoke.

Jessica burst out the big doors, on the phone. I angled myself behind the man in the cashmere coat. “Deny it,” she said into the phone in clipped syllables. “It’s not my voice. Just say no comment.”

She stopped in the middle of the patio, still on her call, and stared at her shoes, then out over the mezzanine onto Wilshire Boulevard. The flights of stone steps on each side framed her perfectly, yet she still looked lost. If I felt sorry for her for half a second, the image of Jonathan getting put into a police car at Santa Monica Airport dismissed my compassion and replaced it with something much fiercer.

Jessica glanced at the wood doors then turned on her heel and went down a hall. Once she was far enough away, I handed the man his handkerchief. His back had been to her, and he didn’t look around.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Keep it.” He smiled and went toward the wooden doors. I saw inside when he opened them. The room was crowded, and everyone was sitting. I checked my phone. Nothing from Jonathan. If he was sitting at our table, getting pissed, he would have texted me.

I went down the hall. I’d come to look for Jonathan, but I thought I might hear another snippet of phone call. I was sure he was fine. Just being mysterious, as usual. I followed Jessica into the ladies room. It was a standard museum bathroom. Clean, white and blue, with midlevel fixtures and flat, warm, white lighting. My shoes echoed on the tile. If she’d been on the call in the bathroom, she either stopped talking when I entered or she’d cut the call already.

The door opened behind me, and I heard Jonathan’s voice, but it wasn’t him.

“—my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are.”

I froze. It was undoubtedly him, from the floral metaphor, to the word cunt, to the dominant voice. Three women came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. The young woman with the phone in her hand had her hair done up like Audrey Hepburn, right down to the tiara. The second was tall and matronly with a sweater, flat shoes, and lines of disappointment permanently etched on her face. They both wore silver pins.

The third woman was Geraldine Stark.

The recording continued.

“Then I’ll fuck you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”

“Do it.”

The voice was shrill and desperate and definitely Jessica’s. That must be it. The voice memo from her stolen phone.

Audrey Hepburn fumbled with the phone, shutting it.

“I want to hear it,” I said. “From the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

She hesitated.

“I was telling them,” Geraldine said, “he’s really like this, and it’s hot. Don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow. I didn’t answer but stared down Audrey Hepburn. She was a nervous kitten, breakable and easily bossed.

“Do it,” I said, my voice the exact opposite of Jessica’s whine.

She shrugged as if she wasn’t giving in as much as bored by the prospect of not continuing. “It’s only really good when he starts this.”

“I’ll undo your jeans. I’ll pull them down to the middle of your thighs so it’s hard to walk. You’ll be uncomfortable, and that will please me. Then I’ll get behind you, and I’ll grab a handful of your hair at the back of your head and bend you over that table. I’ll take off my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are. Then I’ll fuck you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”